


Too Ignorant To Notice

by HiMiTSu



Series: Too Busy For Love [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Matchmaking, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiMiTSu/pseuds/HiMiTSu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had never wanted to be a part of a matchmaker's plan. He had never imagined himself as a 'main target' of a such plan. But maybe, just maybe, it'll turn out fine in the end...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Ignorant To Notice

John didn't know how he had ended up on the backseat of the police car with DI Lestrade at his side and Sherlock in a cab following behind. It probably had something to do with the fact that Sherlock was sulking, still angry at him for inquiring how things were going between his older brother and Lestrade. The DI was pleasantly surprised with the question, answering complacently if not enthusiastically but without any details. Unsurprisingly Sherlock wasn't happy with their conversation. With an irritated 'If you want to gossip about Mycroft so much you can do it without me' thrown over his shoulder he stormed off, hailing a cab and leaving John to join Lestrade in the police car.

"Is it just me or did he get even more spiteful?" Lestrade asked, turning his gaze from the city bursting with life outside the car window to John.

"No, of course not." Sherlock was always sarcastic, his touchy nature making him overreact often, but he was usually only spiteful when with Mycroft. Though lately… "Yes, probably…"

"I see. Does it have something to do with Mycroft? Or me?" Lestrade asked carefully, tactfully avoiding labeling it 'us'.

"I'm not sure. Maybe he's still angry about the last case. It did turn out pretty badly." He didn't like remembering it. Sherlock found the hideout of the criminal group and, not patient enough to wait for his companion who was in the other part of London at that moment, rushed straight into danger. It blew up in his face, probably right at the moment their ringleader blew up one part of the warehouse they were hiding at. If not for Lestrade's quick thinking and Mycroft's help, John wasn't sure where they would be now.

"That's a probability, but I don't know him well enough to make assumptions."

"You think I know?" John asked with a humorless laugh.

"You are his closest friend. The closest person to him…" Lestrade trailed off, peering at John carefully.

"Really?" It wasn't actually a question – just a wondering sigh that slipped past his lips along with a small smile. Next moment though the smile fell. "But I still don't know what's wrong."

Lestrade patted him on the shoulder lightly. "It'll turn out fine in the end, I'm sure."

John smiled and glanced in the rearview mirror at the cab behind them; even though Sherlock was the first to rush away he ended up following them.

"John," Lestrade addressed him and the doctor momentarily picked up the notes of nervousness in his voice. The DI ran a hand through his hair before turning to him, fidgeting. "I need to tell you something." He lowered his voice and looked around, fixing his gaze on the driver for a moment as if worried that they might be overheard. "Mycroft will not be…pleased with me if I tell you but…" He struggled with words and his voice was barely heard over the sound of the car engine. "Let me put it like this – Mrs. Holmes is not the only one with matchmaking tendencies in the family."

With that he leaned back in his seat, having moved closer to practically whisper the words, breathing out noisily. John stared at him, repeating the words in his head, struggling to understand the meaning.

"Excuse me?" He frowned, thinking that he might have misheard.

"Don't make me repeat it. You heard me. Just remember." Lestrade replied and added as an afterthought. "And be careful."

That made John sit up straighter in his seat. The question was on the tip of his tongue, the first one amongst the dozens swarming his thoughts, but at that moment the car stopped and Lestrade climbed out with one pointed glance at the doctor. At that point it was a more confusing than frightening warning.

* * *

One confusing car drive, one tiring chase all around London, one eventful evening and one sleepless night after, the sudden warning didn't become any less disorienting. John was lying in his bed, on the covers right where he slumped after he had successfully dragged his unresponsive body upstairs to his room. By the time the rays of the rising sun fell freely through the curtains, which he didn't have the energy to close, John was about to finally succumb to blissful sleep – his job be damned, he was going to sleep through the whole day.

Earlier that day Sherlock, high on the mere idea of solving another crime, dragged him around the city on a mad chase, restless like a child with a new toy. Not that John didn't enjoy it as much as Sherlock did, but the exhaustion after was far from pleasant. Thus his desire to sleep through next week.

Also Lestrade… John shuddered as he remembered the way Mommy Homes had played a matchmaker for her older son. Though the result was better than anyone had expected; for months now Lestrade and Mycroft had maintained a steady relationship. He knew that Sherlock cursed himself every time his brother turned up at a crime scene as it was none other than the consulting detective who proposed the idea of making the DI Mycroft's next date. Sherlock liked to repeat the fact as much as he could and as often as anyone would listen that he was just repaying his debt to Mycroft for saving his life. That didn't change the fact that now he saw more of his brother every day than he probably had for years.

Involuntary, John couldn't help but notice that Mycroft seemed happy. His smile was more genuine even when he was in a midst of an insulting match with Sherlock.

With a sigh John gathered his courage and admitted that he understood clearly what Lestrade meant by the warning, but how much he didn't want to believe it…

* * *

"Sherlock? Was that the sound of an explosion?" John called out as he descended the stairs and made his way to the kitchen. "Sherlock?"

There was no one in the kitchen. There was, however, a lonely kettle with a cloud of steam erupting from under the lid, and John was doubtful it was water boiling inside. At his own risk he neared it and quickly pushed it into the sink and turned the water on. Not very professional, he mused while watching the cold water cool off the metal, and probably was bound to ruin the experiment, whatever the subject was, but Sherlock deserved it for leaving it like that.

"Sherlock?" John called again, irritation more prominent.

Just like before he didn't get an answer. Exiting the kitchen and looking around he came to the conclusion that the consulting detective wasn't at home. Probably rushed out to another case alone, seeing as how it was now way past midday and John was supposed to be at work. The prospect of staying at home for a whole day without his sometimes unbelievably annoying flat mate didn't seem appealing anymore as John looked around, standing in the middle of their mess of a living room in complete silence.

Just as he was about to grab his jacket and head outside himself, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Deliberate in the slowness of his actions, he pulled it out and looked at the screen. A message. He didn't need a sixth sense to know who the sender was. His suspicions confirmed when he saw the number did belong to Sherlock, he opened the text only to stare in confusion at the address. Frowning, his eyes still glued to the screen, he made his way outside and hailed a cab. A brief thought that he was so used to his flat mate's spontaneous nature that he would follow him anywhere without asking question ran through his mind, quickly replaced by wondering what his flat mate had gotten himself into this time.

After a twenty minute ride, the cab stopped before a nice looking house, a little too small to be called a mansion, but surely attracting more attention that the neighboring houses. It didn't look like a destination Sherlock's investigations would have led to. Still, John slid out of the cab, looking around. Unsure of what to do, he walked up to the large gates with elegant iron-wrought flowers. As he was about to step aside and push a small white button that would have informed whoever was inside of his presence, the gates opened by themselves. It was a silent invitation and John's nerves stood on edge at the trepidation of the unknown. He looked around the empty sidewalk leading to the house and took a first step onto the gravel. Then another, his mind alert and at the ready for any sudden attack that might occur. Less than a minute later he was standing before the white wooden doors of the house.

They opened inside the moment he stopped on the first step. Somehow it was more unexpected than anything he had imagined when he first caught the sight of the house, on the other hand he had been waiting for this moment ever since he fully understood Lestrade's warning.

"Good morning, John." Mycroft Holmes greeted from his position in the doorframe. His tone was so casual with a smile so pleasant, he looked like a host greeting his guests to a housewarming party.

"Hello," John greeted with confusion, trying to look past Mycroft into the house. "Where is Sherlock? Is he even there?"

"He will be." The older Holmes replied confidently. He stepped aside, letting John into the house. "Please, do come in."

"Will he?" He asked doubtfully, entering nonetheless and following Mycroft inside. They turned to the right, through the open doorway and into the hall. The place looked cozy, if not a little formal to be someone's home, with wooden panels decorating the walls and a soft carpet under their feet. Mycroft made his way straight to a couple of leather armchairs with a mahogany coffee table between. "Tea?" The older Holes offered as they settled, gesturing to the tea set between them.

"Why am I here, again?" John asked. Despite the weirdness of the situation, he casually reached for the tea pot and poured himself and his interlocutor some tea.

"I wanted your advice," Mycroft said, nodding in gratitude. He took a cup, his fingers elegantly curling over the handle, and took a sip. "I'm contemplating buying a house."

"This house?" John clarified, waving his hand around.

Mycroft nodded. "It's the first on my list for now. How do you find it?"

"It's…nice," John commented truthfully but hesitantly as he still was trying to understand what was going on.

"I see you are confused," Mycroft noted with a small smile. "Don't be. You'll understand everything soon enough."

"I'd really like an explanation right now," John retorted, stressing 'really' because that's all he wanted for now. That didn't prevent him from sipping his tea calmly, enjoying the taste – Mycroft did have the best sorts ordered for him.

"I'm afraid I can't provide you with one," the older Holmes said with remorse, looking like he actually meant it; John knew better than to believe him though. "You will have to see for yourself, because I'm afraid my words won't be enough to persuade you."

"Persuade me in what?" He asked, trailing away and letting the question hang in the air. He didn't get an answer, which wasn't unexpected; the mischievous glint in blue eyes was though. Also, John could swear he noticed Mycroft hide a smile behind the rim of his cup. This could end badly, he thought. So badly.

"How is your relationship with Sherlock?" The man asked casually, feigning nonchalance brilliantly. It was only the fact that John knew perfectly well what the other man was playing at that he could catch the undertone of curiously.

"Fine. Like always."

"No changes at all?"

"Well, apart from him been exceptionally snappish lately… But I don't need brilliant deduction skills to understand that you are the cause." And here went a pointed look, complementing his words. John learned that trick from his housemate.

"I know that Sherlock is not…comfortable with my relationship with Gregory," Mycroft said tentatively. The small hesitation in his words was enough to disclose the vulnerability behind the overall nonchalance.

"He's just annoyed that you visit crime scenes so much," John consoled. It was true, after all. Sherlock wasn't angry at his brother and he was perfectly comfortable with the idea of the said brother having a lover, even if it was DI Lestrade, the 'second most annoying person in the world' as Sherlock referred to him. And if someone needed more proof, John would be happy to remind them that it was the younger Holmes who came up with the idea of them dating in the first place. Sherlock could easily cope with that – but what he couldn't get over was Mycroft's constant appearance in his life. Once a year would probably be too much for Sherlock. "He'll get over it."

And that, probably, was a blatant lie. Both men understood that, but Mycroft's reaction wasn't as bad as John predicted. He just gave another smile, this one even more prominent and all the more terrifying because of it.

They sat in silence. Drinking and watching each other, without anything to talk about. John barely resisted the urge to check his phone, expecting a text from Sherlock, but knowing that his every move was being scrutinized and analyzed. He'd never be able to pass the simple gesture as checking time. Especially since there was a clock on the wall right in front of him.

After approximately twenty minutes, or maybe precisely eighteen minutes and fifty five seconds later, because no matter what he told himself John _was_ watching the progress of the clock handles on the wall, they heard the sound of a car engine and tires scraping the sidewalk as a car stopped outside the house. Mycroft rose from his chair swiftly and with a muttered "If you'll excuse me," which was enough of an indication that John was not supposed to follow him, and went to open the front door.

The click of the door lock beat the ring of the doorbell which meant that whoever was at the door continued ringing just to annoy the host. John had a very good idea about who that person was. Murmured voices were heard, a cheerful greeting of the older Holmes been interrupted by a scandalized "Where is he?"

Yes, that was Sherlock. Lestrade's placating voice interjected, stopping what surely was going to be another vocal sparring between two brothers, and then there was silence or they were talking so softly it was impossible to hear from the other room. It lasted for less than a minute (thirty seven seconds) until Sherlock's temper blew up again with a loud "When will you stop interfering with my life!" followed be a cool but loud "Never, of course." That made John wonder if Mycroft was riling his brother up on purpose.

"Gentlemen," Lestrade had to raise his voice to prevent a new wave of quarrelling. "Mycroft, if you would please explain what is going on."

"Just follow me," came the pleasant invitation. And after a moment (twenty three seconds) the three men appeared from the doorway, Mycroft leading the way, an irritated Sherlock just a step behind and then Lestrade, whose gaze was fixed on the back of the younger Holmes's head to make sure that he didn't do something stupid. Such as try to punch his brother, which judging by his angry expression was not far from happening.

Sherlock's eyes landed on John and the expression morphed in the length of a second.

"John," he breathed out, relieved. "Are you okay? We are leaving immediately."

Brusquely he grabbed John's hand to drag him out of the armchair and out of the house, but John didn't let him, struggling a little while speaking softly:

"Wait, Sherlock. Just wait."

The detective sent him an exasperated look upon finally facing John and let go.

"What, you want to catch up with Mycroft on his personal life?" He spat, sparing a second to glare at his brother, who had already settled back in his chair.

"I already did, actually." John replied casually, knowing it'd only rile his friend more but unable to resist. Mycroft's soft chuckle though did more damage than the words.

"I am leaving," the consulting detective said coldly, stressing every word. He did not move though.

"Well, you can leave now since I've managed to successfully prove my point." Mycroft commented, smiling pleasantly while he looked around, eyes settling on each of them for a moment, gauging their reactions. There was only one person among them angry and covering his surprise with a heavy dose of irritation. Lestrade, having sat on the sofa furthest from the others, was simply taking in the interiors of the house, half listening to the conversation now when Sherlock was standing beside his friend and far enough from his brother. John looked tired. He knew it was coming, but he had hoped it'd never happen. There was only one small mystery in the whole affair.

"Why are Sherlock and Lestrade here? I mean, how did you synchronize the time?" The question was addressed to the mastermind of the plan. John personally thought it was the worst planned thing in the history of humanity, simply because of the reasons behind it.

"Oh, I'm glad that you asked. It took some time to think of an elaborate scheme to make them appear half an hour later than you did. You see-"

"He sent me a text." Mycroft's self-praising speech was rudely interrupted by Sherlock's remark. "A text saying that you were in danger."

John's eyebrows rose to his hairline on their own accord, conveying his surprise. The consulting detective went on with his explanation, alternating between glaring at Mycroft and glancing at John.

"I rushed to the hospital, but I was told that you didn't appear at work today."

"Which made you even more worried," Mycroft added his input. Lestrade snorted in the background.

"So I returned home," Sherlock continued. "Mrs. Hudson said that you left just half an hour after I did. I had to…phone Lestrade," obviously it pained him to admit it. "But only he had a quick way of finding you."

"That being?" John prompted. It was nice to know that Sherlock would do anything in his power to protect him.

"CCTV," the DI answered from his corner of the room. He was settled quite comfortably on the sofa, enjoying the show.

"So that's why I wasn't abducted by a black car." John pointed out.

"Yes. I'm sure Sherlock would have found you eventually if I used my usual method." Mycroft said. John could only wonder if he had just complimented his brother? "But it'd have taken too much time."

The insult followed the compliment and John barely resisted from rolling his eyes.

"One last question though. I know I'll regret ever asking but… Why?"

"And that, dear John, is for you two to figure out," he gestured to John and Sherlock, still standing close together.

John restrained a shudder at his name been uttered by Mycroft Holmes in such a friendly manner; somehow it seemed creepy. At least now Mycroft, looking very pleased with himself, got up from the chair and pulled out an umbrella, which all this time was hidden in the shadows behind the chair. What immediately caught John's eye was the color of the umbrella; instead of a usual black it was a deep blue, not bright enough to attract attention but also not dark enough to mistake for black. Interesting, but the doctor had more important matters at hand; such as stopping fratricide. And what was Lestrade thinking, just sitting there and observing calmly? But on the other hand, John concluded, it was his Holmes who was about to commit a murder. _His_? Oh, it didn't matter anymore.

"We are leaving," Mycroft announced, completely ignorant to the Death Glare that absolutely deserved to be written with a capital d. Disregarding John and Sherlock completely, he asked Lestrade. "I was hoping you'd let me to show you the house. It's lovely."

Lestrade nodded, getting up. He shot a sympathetic glance to the doctor, and followed Mycroft out.

"Let me show you upstairs first. The master bedroom is just on the right. It has a…" his voice drifted away as the two men departed.

With a relieved sigh echoing loudly in the silence, John looked at Sherlock. He shrugged, feeling awkward for the first time since the day started.

"I wonder if this scheme was actually for our benefit or if he simply wanted to drag Lestrade out from the Yard?" He asked no one in particular.

"Our benefit?" Sherlock asked skeptically. "Is this what he claimed? What benefit?"

He seemed genuinely confused and John wasn't sure if he wanted to give another relieved sigh or maybe just smack the idiot over the head. Somehow he hoped that the genius detective would understand easily what Mycroft's goal was in this 'kidnapping' and, well, do something. The constant unresolved tension was maddening.

"It's nothing. Let's go," John shook his head, disregarding both options in favor of the usual one –ignorance.

Sherlock's gaze followed the doctor to the door, while he himself stood glued to the spot. His eyes narrowed as John stopped in the doorway, looking back questioningly.

"Are you coming?"

"John, what 'benefit' were you talking about?" He asked and John couldn't quite place the intonation in those words. Was it suspicion or teasing? Or mere curiosity?

"It's nothing, Sherlock. Let's just go," John insisted, deep inside knowing that his friend was too stubborn to stop the questioning. Of course, who cares about peoples' feelings when there's a mystery at stake? Not Sherlock Holmes for sure.

"John, I insist." Sherlock said.

The doctor turned away, facing the open passageway, not risking a chance to lock eyes with Sherlock. He looked up, eyes not seeing the white ceiling, and heaved a deep breath. No going back now.

"Mycroft might have thought that…" He trailed away, now looking down at his feet. The shadows cast by an elaborated torcher created a pattern on the soft carpet which suddenly seemed fascinating to him. He didn't want to have this talk – not like this. Sherlock would just press him into revealing the secret – because it was a secret even though Mycroft and almost everyone else knew it, because Sherlock was the one who didn't realize. The concept of _feeling_ was alien for him. He'd just take John's confession, analyze it, deem it unworthy of further consideration and delete it like unnecessary information. This surely wouldn't count as 'useful' in Sherlock's logic. On the other hand, there was bound to be no awkwardness which normally follows moments like this. Sherlock had no idea what 'awkward' meant.

"Might have thought what?"

Sherlock's voice came from much closer than John expected, announcing his presence a step behind the doctor. Startled, he moved away, out of the doorway and into the next room. It was of no use though as the detective moved with him, and walking away would seem like running. John was not a coward, so with another deep breath he braced himself and said as casually as his feelings would let him, adding a note of tired exasperation.

"Mycroft might have thought there might be something between us which is beyond friendship."

"Such as?" Sherlock asked. He sounded as tense as John felt and the detective's hands found a place on John's shoulders, holding lightly. The touch was gentle but the doctor felt like he was chained in place, heavy weight pressing on him.

"A romantic attachment," he replied, emotionless, he hoped.

"A romantic attachment," Sherlock repeated, as if tasting the word. His palms slid down John's forearms slowly, almost a caress, and returned to his shoulders. "And what if I say…"

He cut the sentence off with a deliberate pause and John stopped breathing for a moment as the hands slid from his shoulders down, trailing the planes of his back gently.

"If just this one, and only one time, Mycroft is right?" Sherlock finished, hands stopping at both sides on John's hips, fingers curling into the fabric of his jeans.

"Sherlock?" He asked, disbelieving. Not daring to say anything else lest he had misheard.

But as the man's hand slid higher and circled his waist, Sherlock's chin resting on his shoulder, he got proper proof of the other man's intention.

"What would you say?" Sherlock asked. John could feel his hurried breathing on the side of his face as they stood so close, almost pressed together but still not quite.

He gulped and leaned into the embrace slightly, just to reassure Sherlock, because the detective now seemed as nervous as John.

"Good," was the only thing he managed to let out, not trusting his voice.

"Good," Sherlock repeated with more confidence. "Good then."

And the hands holding him disappeared but not without one palm trailing his waist as Sherlock side stepped him, heading to the exit.

"How about dinner?" Sherlock asked, casual as always.

"Dinner?" John stammered, feeling ridiculous and confused.

Sherlock stopped as he reached the door, tugging on the doorknob harshly while half-turning to John. He smiled.

"Or should I say a date?" Sherlock asked. He was still smiling as he looked away with slight confusion. "I'm not sure how this works though…"

"It's fine. I'll show you." John suggested with a smile of his own.


End file.
